Beyond the Walls
by RiptideZ
Summary: The Walls have guarded Mankind for centuries; it has become almost impossible to imagine a life for anyone beyond these great Guardians. Legends speak of great civilizations in far off lands with the capacity to beat back the Titan onslaught, many thought them Myths, until the year 850, when the truth finally came out, Salvation from Beyond the Walls.
1. Lost World

**So I've changed my policy for this story, I don't have the time or the energy to complete this story so instead of writing a full fanfiction work, I'm just going to put out a short fiction piece distributed within one to five chapters.**

**Chapters will be short and the story will be short in general. I'm starting over with this story idea but it's still a Modern Military vs. Titan like fic. I would like to thank my friend AquilaTempestas for providing me with some criticism and editing for this chapter. I'm going to suggest some things for you guys to look into. The Anime: "GATE: Thus the JSDF Fought There" shares a similar idea to this story with a premise of the Japanese Military fighting an alternate dimension fantasy world ruled by a Roman-like Empire. It shares some ideas with that of Beyond the Walls. In fact, the tie in movie for Attack on Titan is supposed to take place in the future rather than the past according to the trailer.**

**There are certain cultural, historical, and scientific and military aspects I have chosen to ignore entirely for this fiction piece so please be advised if you notice anything out of the norm. Thank you and please Read and Review.**

**…**

_Welcome to RiptideZ's "__Beyond the Walls__," a non-profit fan-produced fiction product under the ownership of set penname: RiptideZ._

_**DISCLAIMER:**__All copyrighted items mentioned or used in this work belongs to their rightful owners of __Hajime Isayama__, Kodansha Comics, and other brands mentioned below or later under terms of Fair Use. The author only owns their own creations. This author is an adamant supporter of Constructive Criticism, please read and review. If anything needs modification with the writing piece below, please contact RiptideZ through the Review section, or Instant Messaging."_

**_…_**

_Chapter 1: Lost World_

_Words: 2103_

_Franchise: Attack on Titan_

**…**

**["Lost World"]**

**[USAF Pentagon Mission Control – October 1993]**

**…**

"Sir, our satellite is 5 seconds out."

"Copy Major, play the countdown."

Several dozen people sat at various monitoring stations throughout an advance military command center. The room was darkened to an ash grey from the building's limited lighting.

At the back of the room, a gruff looking man gnawed at a blackened cigar as he watched his subordinates work through their assigned mission.

A large plasma screen television mounted on the front wall was projecting a world map with multiple trajectory lines of different orbital satellites and a digital timer. One highlighted satellite, a KH-11B DRAGON, started to pass over the European continent traveling from west to east.

"Sir, DRAGON-5 is on station; playing trajectory now." A woman dressed in Olive green fatigues reported to the cigar-smoking man.

"Major Richards, start the video roll. Begin tape." The cigar smoker, General Memphis-Collins ordered to his subordinate. He was short and sharp with his orders, like the good officer he was.

The female major, Richards, quickly tapped some keys on her desktop and the television screen changed to a fast moving video feed of the Earth from low orbit.

The Earth was so radiant and beautiful; how a species as violent as Humanity could thrive on this seemingly peaceful world was unthinkable. With its thick cerulean seas and rich brown and green landmasses, the lazy cloud formations over the planet's surface; this world was a real paradise.

The satellite, traveling hundreds of miles a second, had little time to catch a clear image of the Earth below. On the television screen, the world seemed to pass rather in bright streams of green, blue, and brown. In only a few seconds, DRAGON-5 passed out of the sunlight and was engulfed by the Earth's nightly shadow.

"Tape recorded; initiating playback." Richards stated as she continued to type.

The video went black and reset itself; the crowd of military servicemen in the room stood as one looking toward the screen. Like the first American moon landing, this would be a new first attempt by any people to capture a view of the Earth's lost hemisphere in vivid detail.

Many nations had access to low orbiting satellite. The majority of orbiters however, were archaic in design and incapable of conducting high definition reconnaissance with their outdated cameras and onboard equipment. The United States, even at the risk of starting an arms race or a naval conflict with the other Pacific nations, decided to take a great risk. In 1973, a meeting in Mexico City between the regional powers of the Western Hemisphere referred to as the Advanced Weapons and Technology Conference outright banned a broad spectrum of space endeavors on an international level.

Collins wasn't exactly happy with the 1973 AWT Treaty. No, he absolutely abhorred it! Just like all the young men and women that had grown up in the 60s, they had wanted to be astronauts and with the '73 resolution, any chance of that dream had been crushed. Hell, the entire American Aerospace Industry had collapsed overnight from the treaty. However, after he reminded himself of the hate he had felt for much of the Southern Hemisphere for denying him the chance to go to space, the US government brought him an alternative.

Only a few years after becoming a general in the USAF, Collins had been approached by the Secretary of Defense and simply told that he had been chosen to lead a joint Canadian-American black project codenamed: ROUND TABLE. The exact words of the American President always brought a cheeky grin to the General's face.

"I don't care what you have to do, what toes you have to step on. I don't give a shit of what muck you have to crawl through or what strings you have to pull; I want you to get my NASA back. I want my satellites and space ships back. I don't care what you have to do, I don't give a fuck. You have your orders and you have a blank check, go make some magic. If you have to pull it out of your ass, do it. General, you're dismissed."

ROUND TABLE's endgame included the detailed geographical mapping of the Eurasian supercontinent and the eventual naval expedition to the unknown hemisphere. Much of the black project had taken highly enigmatic maneuvering of manpower and equipment into the final launch project of DRAGON-5.

One whiff to the other nations through espionage or whistleblowing in the US would lead to assured political retaliation. Collins had made sure all his activities had stayed under wraps. The USAF kept the development and delivery of the advanced satellite equipment to a small circle of tightknit aeronautics corporations with close ties to the US government. The listings of additional technologies aboard the satellite construct had been kept off the books. The necessary people were paid off. Enemy spies were tracked down mercilessly and appropriately silenced by the Other Government Agency.

Right at this moment, Collin's OPERATION: ROUND TABLE was one of, if not, the most well-guarded secret in the world. To think that the 1973 AWT Treaty had forced the American Aerospace Industry underground was an understatement. The planned Global Positioning System developed by the US DARPA agency, had been put on indefinite hold but some of its tech had been incorporated to the modified DRAGON-5 module. Even some of the spiritual successive ideas from former President Reagan's SDI project had been included into OPERATION: ROUND TABLE. The operation had been paid no expense.

The United States would not be held back by its culturally backwards neighbors, they were to move forward with this operation. Even at the risk of an arms race, even at the risk of war.

Collins would see to it that the US would be first nation to make a claim in the Lost World, as referred to by many historical scholars. Of course the US would share its claim with its allies but they made sure to claim the best resources and real estate. The Dark Ages had left many unanswered questions in Human history, no longer, the US was going to bring the answers out of the shadows.

Two thousand years of waiting and finally it was over, the images and the time for rediscovery had begun. The fruitless labor of countless generations was about to pay off, the digital tape started to play at a significantly slower speed than it was recorded.

Stills were quickly captured and recorded as the tape rolled. The small crowd remained speechless and anticipating. What would be on the screen? What did Europe look like from space? Was it a snow capped landscape, or a large endless plain, or a mountainous region, or maybe a huge temperate forest?

The stills came in in a slow duration revealing beaches and coastlines almost identical to that of the North American east coast. Large grassy plains and pine forests dotted the expanse as it passed by. Large rivers and hills and mountains entered the picture the further they kept the Eastern bearing. They had passed the English Isles long ago, the European mainland was rocky and hilly but appeared highly fertile as a great landmass for grazing and civilization development.

A stone grey like structure suddenly entered one of the stills over European's Germanic regions. The structure, large in size and the size of the fabled Great Wall of China, was roundish in nature and as the images moved started to form a circle. It wasn't natural, this was deliberate.

The first manmade structure to appear on screen was quickly met by not one but two more circles that enclosed within one another. Walls. Giant walls visible from orbit, a human empire in the Lost World. What was this?

"What the actual fuck?" A noncommission officer questioned loudly. His voice was matched by the shocks of the multiple officers in the room. Richards froze the image in place.

The butt of Collin's cigar hit the floor with a small sizzle. What the hell was going on; Collin's face was in a long gap, his face shocked to the bone. What was going on?

Meanwhile, the General's secretary, Jonesy was already making phone calls to the necessary offices. Collins could already hear the words, "Get me a direct line to the Situation Room…"

…

**[White House Situation Room – October 1993]**

…

"I don't want to hear another excuse of the Mexican government claiming that the Cartels are under control and the death toll is a misinformation campaign!"

"Mr. President…"

"They keep saying that they got the issue handled. They have an official death count of a few thousand civilians and a few hundred paramilitary and Mexican military servicemen. You want to know the true numbers?"

"I know it already, Mr. President, but—"

"General, it's an estimated 46 thousand people. 46 thousand dead. Men. Women and children. Fucking forty-six thousand people killed by a bunch of self-interested rectum-rammed, far flung pot growing asshats."

"Mr. President!"

"What the fuck, Grymes? Do not bring me down from my high horse! I will smack you across the face if you tell me this doesn't take precedence."

A gathering of the US Joint Chiefs and the most important political and military advisors and officials in the country found themselves gathered in an obscured and darkened room of the Presidential Office. The United States President sat at the front of an old oak table with the lengths along the desk were filled by seated American military leaders.

A heated rant of the current president had effectively silenced the rest of the room. The Generals, Admirals, and several intelligence officers were left flabbergasted by the anger and personal vendetta of the executive of the Office of the President.

"I don't give a hog's ass what the Mexican government claims and what they do, we know they are in the hand of the Cartels. We got blood spilling profoundly on our borders. So we are going to make a stand. Their government will go to hell for their indecision and inability to control this problem."

"Mr. President, I'm going to have to stop you there sir." Mr. Andrew Grymes, a CIA Liaison to the Presidency, stated calmly to the nation's leader.

"What, why? Is the lives of civilians and the collapse of a border nation not important?"

"We got word from the Pentagon: General Collins has sent us a digital info packet. We have a status report on OPERATION: ROUND TABLE."

"Oh." The president answered in shock. He wasn't used to being cut off by his subordinates, much less a former Army Colonel on the CIA payroll. Grymes was simply an advisor, not a commander. Even during his military service, Grymes was good at taking orders, not giving them.

"Mr. President, we'll get back to Mexico later. We know with near perfect accuracy that Mexico as a sovereign nation will still exist tomorrow."

"Thank you, General." The President replies as he wipes down his face in emotional defeat. He could go on a rant later, now was the time to cool his heels and put a thinking mind to work.

The USAF General Thomas Grayson, a patriotic man with a cool head and an apparent issue with the chain of command started to brief the president of ROUND TABLE's findings.

The projector at the other side of the room lit up with stills of the European continent, specifically the image of the Germanic walls.

"Sir, only a few minutes ago, we had reports from our DRAGON-5 satellite that revealed signs of civilization still in play in Europe if not also in Africa and Asia. This is the first anyone in the government beyond this office or the members of Collins's team have seen these images. The CIA has placed this discovery above top secret until we can determine how it will affect our domestic and foreign atmosphere."

"Show me the rest of the package General. Let's get cracking, foreign policy can wait. I think this is the closest my administration is going to get to making first contact with little green men from Mars." The President stated as an Admiral made to start passing around data and debrief packets received from the Pentagon.

Nervous laughter escaped several mouths of the Joint Chiefs as the pressure in the room began to rise again. The first contact with a civilization from the Lost World; the President could feel the butterflies in his stomach. With only a few months before the end of his presidency as well.

It looked like the President's Big Mac was going to have to wait a little longer.

**...**


	2. Côte de non Retour

_**So Chapter 2, here we are. Another short chapter but I believe I've established this as the norm for this story. The name of this chapter is French for, "The Coast of No Return," it refers to the mystery surrounding the European continent. In this Alternate History, I would like everyone to assume that there have been past expeditions from the West to the East but all have failed up till now and a lack of interest that spans a century has led to an uncertainty of the interest in the continents in the Eastern Hemisphere. All technical information in this story has been researched and are the closest I could get to establish a realistic premise with liberties in historical context. I hope you all read and review and enjoy this chapter, have a good day!**_

_**If you guys don't know I'm a big fan of the works of Tom Clancy, if you look closely to the story you might notice an Easter egg in here.**_

**_…_**

_Chapter 2: Côte de non Retour_

_Words: 3189_

_Franchise: Attack on Titan_

**_…_**

** ["Côte de non Retour"]**

**[Irish Coastline, Atlantic Ocean - October 1993]**

**_…_**

_The constant and steady rocking of the ship was really becoming a living nightmare._

_Rear Admiral Jameson "James" McLain had been on shore leave for only two days. He was supposed to be relaxing, enjoying the sunny beaches of Pensacola and Miami. He was supposed to be laying under a beach umbrella with a Jack Daniel's in one arm and a bubbly Cuban gal in the other. So how the heck on God's great Earth did he end up on a classified assignment off the coast of an uninhabited archipelago?_

_The events leading to this predicament were somewhat foggy between the abrupt end to his shore leave, the departure from Florida waters, and the strenuous escape through a tropical depression in the Mid Atlantic. The President contacted the Admiral's staff on an encrypted line, assigned his battlegroup to the British Isles and had cut off his much needed rest after a trade dispute that almost went hot in Bolivia only a month earlier._

It was as if the Commander in Chief was leading McLain by the nose like some clueless dog; it would almost comical if the Admiral hadn't been the questioning type. James was considered by many too young for such a high ranking position, much less to be the commanding officer of the carrier Saratoga, the flagship of the North Atlantic. He rose through the ranks of service by asking as many questions and asking for as much clarification of orders as he could; he made sure he knew every corner and secret about his orders and his mission so that he would be able to react favorably for the state and for his subordinates. Being sent to the British Isles without information or room for clarification was one thing that made him feel uncomfortable.

McLain could almost be called fundamental when he was without his knowledge and clarification for the young Rear Admiral; it was a personal omen of bad tidings. While other sailors might worry about having women on board or the tying of ropes or some other coincidental occurrence. He felt that without information his command and judgement was at risk of failure, James feared screwing up and he feared bad intelligence. He knew that knowledge was power and without it, he was putting the mission, his people, and his own life on the line.

He never wanted to be responsible for a military failure, maybe if he had been more careful and refused his promotions after Warrant Officer, he wouldn't be under this much pressure. War and politics was messy business; being an officer meant getting himself waist deep in the horseshit that made up military service. In a way, becoming a commanding figure in the military was signing himself for an early death.

To think that with his current luck, his lost vacation time, his bad intelligence, lack of orders, a damned Atlantic Storm, and the Lost Continents, could anything get worse?

As he questioned himself mentally on the clearly bad fortune that had been brought upon himself, the Saratoga's island, the command bridge tilted to the starboard side throwing anyone standing on to the floor. The ship rocked and rolled in the storm waves with a consistently aggressive sea.

"Rogue 5 meter on the port side!" A deck officer one story bellow called on the intercom.

"Everyone alright?" The XO, Richard Sterling, asked in a hollering manner as a loud groan again echoed through the mighty vessel.

"Green." A long drone of whispers escaped the lips of the bridge crew, no one was harmed but everyone was in a foul mood. Damn these waves.

"Ensign DeWitt, what is the sea state at this time?" The Admiral asked.

One young man, DeWitt, dressed in navy blue garbs replied, "Sir, the sea state is currently at a level three with an average wave height of 1.3 meters and a sea swell of 5. The weather is getting progressively worse and soon it should be reaching conditions that will discourage continued flight operations. We're currently experiencing climbing wind speeds above forty miles per hour."

Damn. This meant that the waves were getting higher and sailing difficulties would soon be reaching intolerable records for even an 80 thousand ton behemoth like the Saratoga aircraft carrier. With forty mile winds and occasional rogue waves splashing across the flight deck, McLain was really considering calling off flight operations and calling back in the surveillance planes. They were currently twenty miles off the Irish coastline, low lying fog made it difficult to make out land but it consistently appeared on shipboard radar scanners.

"Admiral, should we turn around?" Sterling asked his commanding officer.

"No. We'll wait five more minutes. Since we lost our satellite, I want to see if the Clark can reestablish communications with Washington before we change position. We're in the dark until we get a returned satellite uplink or we change position out of this storm and if what the boys down in weather watch are saying, I think it's going to follow no matter where we go."

"Alright Admiral, your call."

"You don't seem satisfied." McLain said as he sighed in annoyance.

"You know we're going to have to start recalling the planes and the weather is getting progressively worse, in half an hour we may be forced back to Bermuda at this rate, most of our ships were not prepped for rough sea operations."

"I know."

"Then why are we waiting, it would be better to take a chance and get out of the storm than to wait it out until we sink." Sterling said in a condemningly desperate whisper.

"I don't like it either but I'm betting we may actually get some good luck out here, I got a gut feeling."

"James, you know how I feel about your gut checks."

"Knock it off, Richard. I don't like it either, the orders were obscure but it was precisely clear to stick to these coordinates. That's why I sent the Clark out; I'm hoping to get new directions."

"Fine."

"Good. Now if you don't mind, could you go grab me and yourself hot chocolates from the lounge? I'm sure that will calm your nerves. Oh, and make sure to not spill it."

"Yes, Admiral. And James, don't get us killed."

"I'll try my best Rich."

The XO nodded, gave a crisp salute and exited the command bridge off to get some coffee. McLain watched his second in command leave in a hurry before turning to another ship officer. "What's the status on the Clark?"

"They've managed to escape the storm and their communication lines have reached the North American continent, issue is a Canadian traffic controller is giving them a bit of trouble." The officer stated with a resting bitch face.

"Get me a line son. Also, is there something the matter?"

"Yeah, these fucked up waves. When can we leave?"

"When the political jocks decide this idea was a stupid one. Now get me that line."

The sailor nodded and went to his communications station. The Rear Admiral followed stepping in front of a microphone.

"USS Clark, this is Rear Admiral McLain, what is your status, over?"

"This is the Clark; the Canadians are giving us a hard time sir; over."

"Put me on a direct line with them then. Break."

"Copy that sir, patching you through to Nova Scotia."

There was an abrupt click as the officer on the Clark, a US Frigate outside the storm's reach, switched communication lines to augment the Saratoga's signal.

"Who am I speaking to?" McLain demanded.

"This is Nova Scotia Radio Traffic, who am I speaking to?" A feminine voice stated on the other end. Already the woman on the other end was driving the Admiral up the wall, her voice sounded so self-important.

"This is Rear Admiral Jameson McLain of the US aircraft carrier Saratoga, I demand you get me a direct line to the Office of Naval Intelligence in Suitland, Maryland."

"I can't do that sir, you haven't paid the air fee tax."

"What do you mean air fee?" McLain asked angrily. Now this asshole on the other end was giving him a shit time and the waves were in no way getting any more bearable. Man he wished he was below deck in his quarters rather than on the bridge, there at least the waves were tolerable.

"The international communication fee that is required for all non-satellite, long distance calls. For your distance, you will have to pay a premium to get communication access at this longitude."

"Ma'am, you aren't in the middle of a god damn hurricane, at risk of sinking, 20 miles off the coast of the British Isles, withheld mission critical information that could jeopardize every single man and woman of my 17 thousand man force. Every one of their lives is depended on me so if you do not provide me with my required connections; you will likely be finding yourself without a job in the next twelve hours with my connections in your national government. Now where is my line to the Office?"

The woman on the other end did not speak as the voice of the obnoxious radio control lady was replaced with the voice of a gruff intelligence officer.

"ONI Office of the Navy, this is Warrant Officer Krueger speaking."

"This is Rear Admiral McLain speaking from off the coast of Europe, now I've been waiting half an hour for a call so could you do me a favor and patch me to the Pentagon."

"Uh…! Yes sir, right away Admiral!" The officer's voice went from tough and bored to a high pitched squeal of surprise in a matter of seconds.

The man's voice disappeared and was replaced by an unknown male speaker.

"Admiral McLain, sorry for the inconvenience, your contact should be arriving any minute now."

"What? What contact?"

"You'll see Admiral, you'll see soon."

The line was cut from the land based connector.

"Did we lose connection?" McLain asked the radio officer.

"No sir, it was cut on the receiving end."

"Okay, carry on the good work."

The Rear Admiral left the station and stepped back into the middle of the bridge.

"Sir, new contact, bearing 70 degrees our rear, matches the structure of an Army JVX experimental tilt-rotor aircraft."

"…Let it land, I'm going to go meet this new contact. How long till landing?"

"Two minutes sir, give or take in this weather."

"Alright, I'll be on the flight deck."

"Someone scramble the flight deck and get me two FA-18 Super Hornets prepped for launch, I don't know what to expect. The XO has the chair when he gets back in."

A salute from the naval MP in the corner told him his orders were being carried out. McLain saluted back and marched out of the bridge.

DeWitt asked suddenly from his chair, "Did anyone notice that the temperature outside dropped to 34 degrees Fahrenheit?

A pregnant silence echoed through the bridge.

A single voice said, "Fuck. The Admiral is going to kill us when he gets back."

**…**

** [Irish Coastline, Atlantic Ocean - October 1993]**

**…**

"Some turbulence, eh, Commander?"

Aboard an experimental troop transportation aircraft referred to as a JFX, a sickly Air Force commander held onto his brief case as tight as possible. The copilot trying to have a conversation with him only made his nausea even worse.

"You don't like flying, huh?" The guy asked obliviously with his stupid grin plastered over his lean face. "Oh, this is nothing!"

Really because the Commander, one Kevin Jonesy, Air Force intelligence officer, felt like he was going to die. He hated fast moving objects and especially unpredictable, shaky fast moving objects. Roller Coasters. Jet Aircraft. Helicopters. Even hot air balloons. They all gave him the runs. For some reason, he had thought the Air Force was a good idea, it seems he was wrong.

"You should have been with us five, six months ago!" The copilot continued, "Oh! You talk about puke!"

The constant rumbling of the air craft and the chilling internal of the flying beast continued to annoy Jonesy. Five more minutes, five more minutes. Soon he'll be back on firm ground, even if it was really just a giant boat with…planes on it.

"We ran into a hailstorm over Nebraska, right? Everybody's retching their guts out! The pilot shot his lunch all over the windshield, and I barfed on the radio!" The copilot start to take apart a candy bar wrapper and remove the juicy chocolate treasures within. A little hiccup at the sight of food almost made Jonesy's resolve break. Must not puke, must not puke!

"Knocked it out completely, and it wasn't that light-weight stuff either! It was that chunky, industrial-weight puke! Hey you want a bite?" The copilot tried to offer a piece of chocolate to the Air Force commander only to be declined with a wave of a hand which accidentally sprayed everywhere on to the commander's pants. Damn, those were just washed recently.

"Kevin, next time you get a bright idea, instead, just put it in a memo!" The commander spoke chokingly to himself, he was starting to look unnaturally pale as sweat glistened on his cheeks and made him feel warm as his stomach continued to gurgle. God, he was going to be sick!

"We're actually landing now sir, I think you're going to love this!" The copilot called over the roaring rotary wings of the aircraft. The bumping was increasing in velocity as the chair below Jonesy gradually began to shake at the velocity of an unexpected earthquake. Against his better judgement, the commander looked out the window of the experimental aircraft. As expected, the USS Saratoga, a menacingly flat, black top atop a large ship hull. There were dozens of planes strewn across the asphalt flight deck. The huge vessel, almost 10 square soccer fields in size stood out on the rolling sea even against the low hanging fog, rushing wind and rain, and the hurricane-rushed clouds.

The boat was bobbing all over the place; this didn't look like a landing, they were going to crash!

Jonesy heard the pilot cut off the horizontal propulsion and the sound of tilting motors as the giant JFX aircraft sailed from airplane to helicopter mode. They were coming into quickly! The menacing black top of the Saratoga was getting ever closer, if he survived this, Jonesy would never again set foot on a navy ship. This was going to suck, bad.

There was some sudden buckling of the aircraft as it hit the draft winds rolling across the flight deck. Jonesy was reaching for a puke bag when they hit asphalt, he was thrown back into his seat and the gurgling in his stomach increased tenfold. Moments later the plane came to a halt, the warning lights went off, and they touched down upon the deck of the Saratoga.

No longer was Jonesy subject to the harsh bouncing of an aircraft but he met a new menace, the subtle rocking of a ship. Air sickness, now sea sickness. His day was going to shit. Kevin Jonesy, without authorization, without safety confirmation, without waiting for the rotor wings to calm down; he rushed out to the back of the aircraft, forgetting his much needed puke bag. He was pressing the hatch release button and he was out in the freezing rain and wind that pounded the Saratoga flight deck.

His gut retched and suddenly he was puking up everything he had eaten in the last 48 hours. Those inflight salt crackers, the gourmet meal he had at the President's suite in Washington, the 21 ounce ribeye he'd eaten for dinner hours ago. He puked everything, just like the copilot said. The chunky, industrial-weight puke was being spilled everywhere in moist colors of green, yellow, black, and brown. Everything was out in the open laying on the flight deck.

Jonesy wheezed, he puffed, he released and he puked. The runs continued to subside slowly until it was manageable again. Man, he felt like dying. A pair of wet footsteps echoed over the sounds of the many aircraft engines and the many shouts of flight deck servicemen giving and receiving information and orders as they managed their miniature mobile airport.

"So you're the contact, huh?" A voice of an amused but pissed voice called over the roaring storm.

The commander looked up from his gurgling mess he had made. Above him, the imposing figure of a Navy Admiral shivering in a large aviator's coat. He didn't look very happy to see the air force commander.

"Yes—yes sir!"

"You mind telling me what the hell you're doing on my ship and why you didn't arrive before we left port?"

"Short notice…sir! You're—you're Admiral McLain, correct?"

"Rear Admiral Jameson McLain, but to you its sir!"

"What?" Jonesy asked dumbly.

"You made me wait and put my men and women at risk for the brass' damned mission so you're going to take the brunt of the blame. I hope you enjoy standing out on the flight deck because once I've got the information I need, you're going to take your little shit ass and you're going to go back out here and enjoy this smiley weather until your aircraft is refueled and then you'll be on your way. I don't want to see your face on my ship after debrief, get out within an hour or I will have you personally thrown overboard!"

"Yes-yes, sir!" Jonesy replied the best he could in the sudden situation. He still didn't know what was going on.

"Well then, welcome aboard the Saratoga then. Let's go get you a change of clothes a nice warm and sloppy meal so you can refill your stomach. You can debrief me over breakfast!" The admiral spoke as he started to walk back toward the bridge.

The internal walls of Jonesy's stomach squelched at the idea of breakfast. He almost puked once again as he forced back down his stomach acid. "God fuck."

He ran after the admiral and quickly caught up as he struggled to make out words.

"Sir, you may not like what I have to say but I've been permanently assigned to your ship for this mission. I'm Commander Kevin Jonesy, air force, sir!"

"…now why should I keep you on my ship? I'm putting the lives of my crew at risk here and I have another 20 ships with more crews' lives at risk. Now why should I keep you here aboard?"

"Because sir, we've made the most important expedition since the Apollo Landings in Human history sir, and you and your men are at the center of it. I, along with the Joint Chiefs and the President of the United States, chose you for this mission. You wouldn't be here if we didn't think you were capable of this mission." Jonesy stated serious and calming his resolve.

"And what would be that mission, Commander?"

"Sir, we're going to Europe. We're going to the Coast of No Return."

**…**


End file.
